#adult Lovecraft

[ytcomments-archive]

[roadkilledretard]

why did no one tell me that cephalopods have larvae. this changes everything.

[ninja-muse]

This month's last-minute review is brought to you by something of a reading slump. I've read a fair number of good books this month, if you look at the ratings I've given them, but no books that I've gotten excited about, that I've felt were unexpectedly good enough that I had to talk about it.

Until now.

Lovecraft Country was my first Matt Ruff, and it's not going to be the last. It's well-written, with strong characters and good humour, and a really interesting structure. It's a smart book, and feels very grounded and real. Is it an astounding book? No, but it does its thing very well and I enjoyed reading it more than I thought I would.

Let's start with the structure, because that's one of the things that impressed me most. It's a novel-of-stories, with each chapter being a different character on their own adventure, but there's still a narrative arc for the book, clues the characters gather and the readers pick up on, and nastiness that builds and builds until the final showdown. It's a tough structure to pull off, but Ruff's done it.

I also liked that the structure lent itself very well to a sort of puzzle-box story. You get all these clues and hints about what's truly going on, even if you don't realize that till later, and even though you kind of know where the book is going, watching everything slowly slot into place and trying to put everything together before the characters do is a good part of the fun. It's a lot like watching good SFnal TV, which Ruff's author's note says this was meant to be; you get invested in the characters and the individual "episodes", but there's meaning in that key, that comic book, that thing in the forest. Surely there must be, but how?

And the characters! I loved all the point-of-view characters—they're smart, opinionated, complicated, aware of the forces acting against them and doing what they can to avoid them. I was scared for them, I wanted them to succeed, all that good stuff. The white people are also believably drawn, in that they're self-important, greedy, and used to power, but also, when the story allows for us to see it, sympathetic and complicated all the same.

It's hard to say whether this is science fiction or fantasy, but it's definitely in that wheelhouse rather than being a straight-up historical novel. There are ghosts and monsters and grimoires and secret dimensions and a lot of other stuff you might expect to find in a book that's influenced by pulp fiction and early sci-fi and horror. But, as with a lot of genre work that tackles such things these days, Ruff has fun with this stuff while also adding a social twist to them. In this case, having a Black cast allows Ruff to illuminate and comment on the racism inherit to the 1950s. There's humour to it, but in a way that helps the points hit home.

And that brings me to the last thing I need to mention: that this is a book about Black people written by a white man. It's also written primarily for white people, as far as I can tell, because while the characters take redlining and sundown towns for granted, Ruff doesn't assume that his readers will even know what those are or, if they do, be aware how they actually impact people. However, Ruff's also done his research and tackled the subject thoughtfully. The characters don't conform to stereotypes but are definitely informed by their pasts. The stuff they face goes beyond the usual talking points of Black History For White People; there's mention of boycotts of racist businesses, the Tulsa race massacre, the intricacies of buying real estate while Black, the difficulties of loving science fiction when everyone who writes it hates you. And of course he acknowledges that dealing with racist BS on a daily basis and constantly being underestimated puts you at an advantage when there's some really massive BS going down. I thought Ruff handled it all very well, without being heavy-handed or going into anything that he couldn't do justice. (Well, maybe Ruby's story. I need to think about that one more.)

So yeah, I was surprised by this book on a few fronts, and I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. The humour and love of SF tropes, balanced with the antiracism and social commentary, was right up my alley, and the way Ruff told the story was the cherry on top. Like I said, it's not an amazing book—it might have pushed the boundaries of speculative fiction when it came out but it certainly doesn't now—but it entertains and enlightens and does so cleverly. This won't be my last Matt Ruff, like I said above, but I'm also not likely to pick up another one for a while. Maybe in a year or two when I get a hankering for the sort of stuff he does.

[jonathanvik]

Luyten V - Chapter 5

“You must understand, your daughter is the world’s only defense against the Altair,” Director Shapley said, his tone measured.

“I don’t care!” Her mom’s voice raised to a fevered pitch. “You’re not making my Rose a soldier! Besides, it makes no sense. Why is my daughter the only one that can pilot that demonic monstrosity?”

The two adults continued to argue, neither giving an inch. As usual, nobody seemed to care what Rose thought. At least her father was more understanding about the reality of the situation. He tried to intercede on her behalf, trying to calm down his wife. Still, getting thrust into a war didn’t thrill her, either.

“Thanks, future me! Thanks a lot!” Rose scowled. Still, if she didn’t have a choice, she’d fight. She could do this. After all, she destroyed those Altair without issue. An entire invasion? Piece of cake! She hoped.

“I’m going to the lady’s room.” Without seeking permission from the adults, Rose abandoned the room and its tiring conversation. She wandered the government facility, curious about its workings.

“Wow,” Rose stared wide-eyed at the facility they used to conduct Luyten V’s maintenance. Despite its flat, implacable features, the robot seemed to watch her with interest as she entered. The tech was bleeding edge, far beyond anything she’d ever seen in her dinky little town. Some scientists eyed her with curiosity, but continued with their work.

“Fascinating, right?” A nearby scientist at a workstation said, interrupting her gawking. He was tall but well-built, with a bushy mustache fluttering as he spoke with a thick Russian accent. He smiled at her and waved for her to come closer.

On the man’s terminal were computations that boggled the mind, Rose having difficulty absorbing it all. “Wow.”

“I heard you have quite a knack for the mechanical,” the scientist gestured to the project he was working on. “What do you think?”

Rose peered closer. It appeared to be Luyten V’s mechanical skeleton. “It’s masterful. The legs are thick and strong to support the Luyten V’s weight, yet light and delicate enough to move like a human. I’m amazed anything that size can even stand. Wouldn’t the square-cube law work against it?” The larger an object gets, the greater the strain on the structure because of its increased mass. 

“Clever observation,” the scientist replied, pleased. He extended a hand. “Doctor Vasiliy Idelson.”

“Rose Brahe,” she grabbed the older man’s hand and shook it. “What is the Luyten V made from? Steel couldn’t hold that much weight.”

“That’s still a mystery,” Idelson admitted sheepishly. “An alloy of unknown composition. Very unusual.”

Rose nodded and asked other technical questions. Much to her satisfaction, Doctor Idelson was happy to supply the answers. While the advanced scientific principles were difficult to understand, Rose gained a vague understanding of how the robot worked.

“There you are,” an annoyed Sandage said, walking up to them.

“Just exploring,” Rose said without shame. If she designed this stupid thing, she deserved to know its inner workings.

“I’m showing her how the Luyten V works,” Idelson said.

“Doctor Idelson, that confidential information,” Sandage scowled. He eyed the Russian scientist with a guarded, suspicious expression. Old prejudices died hard, she supposed. They were at war with aliens. Shouldn’t they all be friends as fellow humans?

But like Rose, Idelson held no shame. “Ms. Brahe is a talented young lady. We should recruit her to the research team. Her input would be highly valuable.”

“Funny,” Sandage said, unamused. “Come, Rose. Your parents are ready to leave.”

“Fine.” But she smiled as Idelson gave her a conspiratorial wink. If she returned, she’d love to speak more with him. It was rare to meet someone with a similar love for the unknown. She burned with the desire to tear apart the Luyten V and see how it all worked.

“You’ll be happy to know your mom ok’d you to pilot the Luyten V,” Sandage said without preamble as they walked down the halls.

“Really? How’d they convince her?”

“Director Shapley can be quite persuasive.” Yet, Rose detected this development didn’t please Sandage.

“Is something wrong?” Was he convinced she couldn’t do it? It was an odd change, considering his encouragement when she fought with the Altair scout. Was something going on?

“I argued against it, but they went ahead anyway,” Sandage fought back the bitterness in his voice. Rose pressed the point, but the government agent refused to elaborate as they walked down the halls.

“Okay.” An awkward silence hung between them as they walked. It broke as Sandage said something else.

“Just know this, Rose,” Sandage hardened his jaw, his face filling with determination. “We will do whatever it takes to protect you. We have your back, always.”

“Sure.” Rose blinked in confusion. Wasn’t he against her a second ago? Whatever. Adults were weird and often contradictory. Still, the encouragement heartened her. With this awesome team behind her, how could she lose?

---

“I’m fine, Georges. You don’t need to worry about me.” Rose stuck her head further into her book.

“I’m just worried about you, Rose. Apparently, they’ve recruited you to mold you into their personal soldier, brainwashed to do whatever they want!” her friend said, scowling. 

“That’s not true!” Rose snapped back. It wasn’t like she wanted this. 

“Just leave her alone, Georges,” Vera said, rolling her eyes. “Stop being so pushy.”

“So, it doesn’t bug you that the government has a jack-booted thug trailing Rose wherever she goes?” Georges whispered, pointing to the black-suited man in the corner of their study hall.

“Mr. Brown? He’s cool,” Rose waved towards her bodyguard, who responded with a slight nod. While on duty, the granite-faced man seemed more like a stone carved statue. While alone, however, she found him friendly and easy to talk to. They shared similar interests and enjoyed bouncing ideas off him.

“It’s like Grandpa says, they’re always tracking us.” Georges took on a conspiratorial tone. “Did you hear about the secret chips they install in microwaves? Totally a way to spy on us.”

“How would that even work? Why would you even spy on someone from their kitchen?” Rose said, exasperated.

“I’m just saying,” Georges replied. “Trust me. Things are going to get bad soon. They’re already talking about a world government!”

That particular conversation had recently gained some major steam, trending on many social media sites. With people scared about the Altair, some proposed that a single world government would better pool humanity’s resources to fight them. Politicians were throwing their weight around to strengthen ties with their allies and once-rivals. While Rose didn’t give it much credence, it was an interesting thought experiment.

“It’s awfully convenient that the Altair showed up when our relationship with the Russians was at an all-time low. Grandpa says we’re way too friendly with the Russians now. It isn’t natural!” Georges continued.

“Georges, stop parroting whatever your grandfather says,” Rose said, annoyed. Since Georges’ parents died when he was three, he’d lived alone with his grandfather almost his entire life. While a nice enough man most of the time, he seemed somewhat unhinged sometimes. 

Georges opened his mouth to continue his rant, but Hans stopped him in his usual curt way. “Shut up, Georges. No one cares about your ridiculous theories.”

Thank you. Rose sighed in relief. For once, they were in total agreement. Georges grumbled to himself, chastened.

“Anyway, I’m surprised they’re still allowing you to go to school here,” Vera said, changing the topic. “You’d think they’d lock in some lab somewhere.”

“Eh, they want some stability in my life. They said the normality would keep my spirits up.” 

“Are they having you train?” Hans suddenly asked. “Piloting the Luyten V can’t be easy on your body.”

“Don’t remind me. They have me up three hours early every morning for physical training.” Rose’s muscles ached from being pushed far past their natural limits. Worse, they promised to amp up the difficulty. She really wanted to complain to her future self for putting her through this nonsense.

Much to Rose’s surprise, Hans’ expression softened. “Keep with it.”

“Huh?” Rose blinked, surprised by the sudden kindness. Before she could comment, Hans had disappeared. She only shook her head. The world was getting crazy lately. It seemed like anything could happen. For reasons that ashamed Rose somewhat, she wished they remained that way. Despite the ever-present dangers, it was exciting, 

“Hello, class,” Ms. Sagan said as they entered math class. They each took their seats, but their teacher didn’t start the class as expected. Instead, a girl Rose had never seen before entered their classroom. The first thing that struck her was the newcomer’s unusual size. Rose almost assumed the newcomer was a high schooler, the girl reaching almost her father’s height.

“Hello. My name is Cecilia Burbidge. It is nice to meet you,” the tall girl gave the class a bow.

“What’s with the formality?” Vera whispered to her. How the girl spoke was odd, stilled. The newcomer’s clothes were simple, baggy pants and a pink sweatshirt. It was an unusual contrast to the prim and proper way she spoke. She didn’t seem like someone from high society.

“I wonder if she was homeschooled,” Rose wondered. The newcomer seemed oddly wide-eyed as she entered the classroom, like she’d never seen one before. While everyone was whispering about how strange their newest classmate was, Rose’s heart warmed to the girl. The poor thing seemed lost as class began, having trouble concentrating with so many strangers around. Rose swore to lend Cecilia her notes later.

“Is this seat taken?” Rose said, sitting next to their newest classmate. The lunchroom bustled with activity, each student rushing to their usual click or friend group. Rose, however, chose a different option. 

“Oh, Brahe. Um, hi!” Cecilia said awkwardly. “Sure, why not!”

“Good. Are you adjusting well to Dee Middle?” Rose asked, biting into her garlic bread. While the lasagna wasn’t anything special, garlic bread was impossible to mess up.

“Perfectly,” the other girl replied. “Shouldn’t you join your other friends?” The other girl pointed to her pair of friends waving her over. But Rose only dismissed them with a shake of her head.

“Nonsense. I’m more interested in you. You’re attending a new school. It can’t be easy. Were you homeschooled before this?”

“Yes, you could say that, Brahe.”

But Rose only laughed. “No need to be formal. We’re all friends here.”

“Friends, but we’ve just met?” The other girl looked down, blushing. Had this girl never had friends before? From her stilted position, Rose supposed Cecilia didn’t hang out often with others her age. 

“Nonsense. We’ve talked, so we’re friends now.”

“I’ve read it takes years to develop a deep connection to someone. Yet, you’ve only known me for seconds before calling me a friend?”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it.”

The girl looked down, fidgeting somewhat. “Thanks. Everyone’s been staring at me. They think I’m some oddball.”

“They’re just not used to you. Give it a few weeks. You’ll just be another part of the furniture.”

Cecilia stared at her hands before replying. “You’re not what I expected. You’re upbeat, considering the scary stuff that’s happened to you.”

“That?” Rose snorted. “I’m not worried about the Altair. Luyten V and I are becoming a great team. We’ll smash them like the others.”

This comment made Cecilia go quiet, her face going pale. She started quaking.

“Is something the matter?”

“Aren’t you worried that you’re in over your head?”

Rose saw the worry and sensitivity in the other girl’s eyes. “Look, I’m just trying to make sure everyone’s safe. With the Altair threat hanging over us like a noose, people need to know I’m standing firm, that I’m invincible.” 

This comment made Cecilia speechless. She stared down at her hands, troubled. Rose wanted to reassure the girl everything was okay, but Vera had lost patience and butted onto their table. Vera introduced herself and asked hundreds of probing questions that Cecilia had trouble answering. After the rather grim nature of their conversation, it was a comedic and welcome relief.

“And who dressed you?” Vera said, picking at the shoulder of Cecilia’s plain sweatshirt. As usual, the girl liked to speak her mind and forgot about tact. “They have no fashion sense.”

“Really?” Cecilia looked down at her outfit. “I suppose so. The doctor thinks that function takes precedence over appearance.”

“Doctor?” Vera asked, perking up with interest.

“I don’t really have parents, so Doctor Burbidge raised me,” Cecilia replied. It explained the girl’s remarkable intelligence. While socially awkward, she’d answered every question the teachers had asked her with perfect accuracy. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Though it must be nice not having parents muck everything about. While she loved her parents, Rose had to admit they were often difficult. In their rush to attend to her other siblings, she’d regularly get missed in the rush. 

Vera clicked her tongue. “Yes, this won’t do. After school, we’re having an emergency shopping session.”

“Fine,” Rose said, rolling her eyes. While she enjoyed shopping, she didn’t share her friend’s passion for fashion. “Then we can watch Stella afterward.”

It was her friend’s turn to roll her eyes. “Must we?”

“Stella?” Cecilia asked.

“She’s an indie vTuber.” When the new girl responded with a blank stare, Rose clarified. “Basically a streaming celebrity, but with more anime.”

“Oh, it’s an internet thing,” Cecilia replied. “I’ve never really used the internet growing up. I was more interested in reading and drawing.”

“What?” Both Vera and Rose stared at the girl like she’d grown a second head. Did Cecilia live in a cave before today?

“Then you must watch Stella’s stream with me,” Rose said, declaring this like it was a holy decree. “She’s doing karaoke tonight.”

“Oh.” Cecilia showed little enthusiasm to this pronouncement. She sighed as her new friends rambled at her excitedly, ignoring her meek protestations.

---

Ever consuming nothing pressed against them as they traveled through the void. Nothing existed here, not even time. Even to the implacable Altair, the void was oppressive and lonely. To less single-minded and focused beings, they would’ve long broken their sanity. But to the Altair, it only heightened their appetite when they arrived at something. There, they’d gorge themselves on reality. This newest universe seemed the most appetizing, full of life and vigor. They’d feed well. All they needed to do was wait for the scout’s report. 

The odd, unknown scout had led them to a world brimming with intelligent, industrial beings. While their technology seemed primitive and non-threatening, the Altair wanted all their children to enjoy the fest. It won’t throw away its numbers for only minimal gain. So it’d sent the scout to soften up their defenses, filling the planet with despair, as they failed to fight even a single of their number. 

In the void, the Altair slept, conserving their energy for the feast. Only the Grand Intelligence stayed awake, planning and scheming until the Altair scout returned with news of its success.

“Impossible!” A jolt slashed through the Grand Intelligence’s mind as its child died, consumed by fire. It wailed in pain and grief over the loss of its child. It’d bravely thrown itself into an unknown world to gauge its strength. Rage filled the Grand Intelligence, lashing out in fury at the outrage. How did these tiny beings kill such a formidable foe as the scout? 

As the Grand Intelligence’s outrage subsided, icy, frigid logic replaced it. Clearly, this planet has sharper teeth than it’d first suspected. They would need to handle this Earth with delicate care to avoid senseless Altair loss. It read the flashes of insight the brave scout had sent through the void before its death. While fragmentary, the images of the Red Demon were clear to the Grand Intelligence. 

The countenance of this terrible foe was quite fearsome, its power mighty. But its readings were odd, of an almost familiar color. The demon didn’t belong, somehow alien to this reality. 

Grand Intelligence projected a command to one of the mightiest of its three generals. And Okab the Terminator answered the call. Green floated before the Grand Intelligence, subordinate to its wishes. It nodded its understanding, compiling in perfect obedience. This child won’t fail. It’d destroy this new enemy through cunning instead of brute force.

The Altair shifted in the void, waking from their slumber. They hungered after their lost voyage, eager to hunt. The Grand Intelligence coxed them, working them up into a frenzy. Once Okab’s mission was complete, they’d feed. 

[pterrorgrine]

i can't remember if i shared this when i reblogged this before, but when i was a kid, we went on a vacation to new england, and at some gift shop or another i insisted that the appropriate souvenir for me would be a short story anthology i saw called new england ghosts. i was a kid, so i guess i expected to be a little creeped out, but my expectations were on the level of, like, "and then a skeleton popped out!", since that's what i had experience with by that point. instead, the very first story in the book was "this is death" by donald e. westlake, which opens with a disturbingly graphic depiction of suicide -- describing the rope digging into the guy's neck, his eyes bulging out, his face swelling as the blood is pushed up, and worst of all the immediate and unsalvageable regret -- and only gets worse from there.

i was seven years old.

it affected me so much that i manually transcribed it and put it on pastebin, since it's awfully hard to find otherwise and i want to inflict this experience on everyone else. i still love it.

when i was a kid, every collection of books—large or small, public or private—had at least one small grubby volume called “fifty japanese fairy tales” “african folk tales” “who’s a-knockin at my door and other scary stories” “haunting mysteries of the sea” “golden threads: slavic fairy stories” “the unabridged grimm’s fairy tales,” and that book would contain at least one short story bizarre and haunting enough to permanently rewire your brain. and babey i was a fucking bloodhound hunting them down

[iannozzigiuseppe]

L'apparizione di Baozhai. Gli incubi di Howard Lovecraft. Vol. 1 - Lothar T. Payne - Fanucci Editore

L’APPARIZIONE DI BAOZHAI Gli incubi di Howard Lovecraft (Vol. 1) Lothar T. Payne Età di lettura: Young adult (dai 12 ai 18 anni) Fanucci Editore «Sono il tuo sogno? Accidenti, sai davvero parlare alle donne.» «Ma no» protesta lui. «Cioè, sì, il fatto è che sto sognando. Ti sogno ogni sera. Tutto questo non è vero.» «Mi sogni ogni sera? Be’, grazie. Però ti garantisco che tutto questo è vero,…

[astranauticus]

had the thought 'if i had a domain what would it be like' and my brain helpfully supplied 'kafka's metamorphosis' JDSFHKSHDKFJHS

[dwfriendsforever]

Goob Lovecraft, He/Him, Adult

Primary Floor: Hide n Hug

Additional Floors: Crafty Corner, The Wilds, Pop-up Park

He is my son, and you will witness him.

[nellasbookplanet]

Book recs: sapphic books for imodna fans

Do you like your sapphics cursed and undead? Viciously devoted and perhaps a tad codependent? Blurring the line between platonic and romantic? Lonely, ostracized, and feared due to their reliance on a dark and possibly corrupt power? Occasionally possessed by evil? Flirting with the dark side just a little bit? Does your ideal couple look like this?

Then boy do I have the rec list for you!

A note: of course none of the books listed will be an imodna carbon copy, but they all have aspects which gave me similar vibes. Many are horror novels, and not all have happy endings; do with that what you will.

For details on the titles, continue below the readmore. My personal favorites are marked with an *. For more rec lists, take a look at my masterpost!

Providence Girls by Morgan Dante*

Historical horror re-imagining of several of H.P. Lovecraft’s works from the point of view of the women sidelined as victims in the originals. Forced to abandon her not-quite-human children to escape a cult seeking to sacrifice her, Lavinia nearly dies from exposure in the woods. She’s saved by the prickly Asenath. The two women find themselves growing close as Lavinia regains her strength. But Asenath’s own dark past is catching up, as she too begins to transform into something not entirely human.

Note: traumatized women haunted by eldritch horrors and shitty families finding purpose through their devotion to each other, even as transformations of body horror threaten to tear them apart.

My Darling Dreadful Thing by Johanna Van Veen*

Historical horror. Roos Beckman and her ghostly, corpse-like spirit companion Ruth have long been under the thumb of Roos' mama, forced to perform in seances and trick grieving people for money. But after widow Agnes Knoop visits a seance, the two strike up a connection and she offers Roos to come live at her estate, freeing Roos from her cruel mama. The estate and Knoop family hide dark secrets, but nothing can overshadow the growing connection between Roos and Agnes. Until, that is, a murder occurs, and Roos is the prime suspect.

Note: how are you supposed to build a romantic relationship when your only human connection before this is the spirit that haunts and possesses you.

Feast While You Can by Mikaella Clements & Onjuli Datta

Character driven horror. Angelina Sicco loves her small hometown of Cadenze, but as a lesbian, her relationship prospects there are slim. Having taken to attracting as many pretty tourists as possible, Angelina is shocked at the arrival of Jagvi, her brother's ex and her own teenage crush. An already complicated situation gets worse when something sets up shop in Angelina's head, whispering, taunting, and taking over her body. It wants to consume her whole, and the only thing that seems to repel it is Jagvi's touch.

Note: strong 'you are my tether' vibes.

Malice by Heather Walter

Fantasy, sleeping beauty retelling. Long ago, a wicked fairy cursed the princesses of the land to die unless they found and kissed their true love. Alyce, herself carrying a curse of dark magic in her blood that leaves her feared and ostracized, has other things to worry about - until she meets princess Aurora. Aurora doesn't fear or judge her, but rather encourages her to be proud of her powers. But Aurora's time is running out, and she has yet to find her true love. Alyce wishes she could help, but she knows how these stories go - Aurora is the princess, and Alyce is the villain.

Monstersona by Chloe Spencer

Young adult, sci-fi horror. After disaster strikes and her town is terrorized by a monster, sixteen-year-old Riley goes on the run with her dog Tigger and her traumatized classmate Aspen. With a conspiracy afoot and air travel grounded, the two girls set out on a cross-country road trip to reach Riley's dad. But Aspen has a dangerous secret, and the two keep finding themselves followed by a mysterious SUV. Will they reach safety before the harrowing truth catches up to silence them?

Note: would you follow your girlfriend if she turned into an uncontrollable monster creature?

The Spider and Her Demons by sydney khoo*

Young adult fantasy. All teenager Zhi wants is a normal life (and possibly for her harsh aunt to be a bit nicer), but it’s hard when she’s half spider demon. Every day she must conceal her true nature and hide in human guise. When she slips up and eats a man in front of her rich, aloof classmate Dior, Zhi thinks her life is over. But Dior has secrets of her own, and she is dead set on making herself part of Zhi's life.

Note: Queerplatonic with aroace vibes rather than explicitly romantic, with a dynamic reminiscent of the hard-to-categorize early imodna friendship.

The Mermaid’s Daughter by Ann Claycomb

A continuation on the classical fairy tale. Kathleen, up and coming opera singer, has suffered from a lifelong and unexplainable stabbing pain in her feet. As both her mother and grandmother died from suicide, possibly due to a similar condition, Kathleen’s girlfriend convinces her to try and find out more of her family history. More magical realism than full fantasy (with a lot of focus on the intricacies of opera) but very beautiful and bittersweet.

Note: inherited curses tempting you to commit dark deeds, and the love that pulls you in the other direction.

Hearts Still Beating by Brooke Archer

Young adult, post apocalypse. Three years after a zombie apocalypse hit, seventeen-year-old Mara comes back to life thanks to a new medication. Still struggling with the guilt of what she did as a zombie, Mara is sent to live with the family of her old best friend, who has since turned cold towards her. But with the zombie threat ever-present and one missed dose away from a relapse, public opinion towards the altered is dangerously low, and the two girls' messy feelings are the least of their troubles.

Note: childhood friends to sort-of-enemies to lovers, former undead with blood on her hands seeking redemption.

Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armifield

Horror. Miri thought she lost her wife Leah when her deep-sea mission ended in a catastrophe. But Leah was miraculously returned to her - or so it seems. Because something happened down there, deep in the ocean, and whatever it was, Leah has brought it back with her. She's changed and changing still, and Miri doesn't know what to do to keep her love with her. Surreal and strange, Our Wives Under the Sea will not answer all your questions, but it will give you a unique experience.

Note: the fear of losing your loved one to a strange and corrupting unearthly power.

The Invocations by Krystal Sutherland

Young adult horror. Zara Jones and Jude Wolf are in many ways different - one poor, the other the daughter of a billionaire - but they share their desperate search for the supernatural. Zara seeks a way to bring her murdered sister back to life, while Jude is plagued by a demonic curse that's slowly turning her soul necrotic. Their shared interest lead them to Emer Byrne, witch in hiding willing to do magic for desperate women and girls. But Emer's former clients have been turning up dead, and before she can help anyone they must come together to find the killer.

Note: messy girls, demonic patrons who may or may not wish you harm, suspect sources of great power, spooky sapphics.

This Monster Wants to Eat Me by Sai Naekawa

Manga. After losing her entire family to an accident as a child, Hinako has been unable to regain the will to live. When she meets a mermaid claiming Hinako's flesh would be especially delicious for a monster to devour, Hinako is prepared to embrace death. But the mermaid won't eat her yet; first, Hinako must reach peak deliciousness. For that to happen, she will have to find within herself the will to live.

Note: Imogen 'you could suck my soul' Temult would love this.

The Fall that Saved Us by Tamara Jerée*

Urban fantasy romance. Cassiel is of angelic heritage, raised to fight and kill demons alongside her family. But Cassiel has left the hunt and her family behind, wanting a normal life. For three years she's built a life for herself, cut off from her family, but now a demon has found her, sent to collect her soul. Except, the demon isn't any more interested in following the orders of her family than Cassiel is. Can they work together to free themselves from the expectations placed upon them?

Note: toxic families, healing from trauma, opposites attract demon/angel romance, and coming into your power without losing who you are.

Girl, Serpent, Thorn by Melissa Bashardoust

Young adult fantasy. Soraya may be a princess, but she's also cursed, her very skin poisonous to the touch. When a demon is captured and brought to the dungeons, Soraya hopes to gain from her knowledge of how to be freed from her affliction. Meanwhile, a boy enters her life, not scared of her like others but rather understanding of who she is. Between them, Soraya will have to choose who she is - princess or monster.

Note: princess and monster romance, but the princess is just as feared and cursed as the monster.

Night's Edge by Liz Kerin*

Vampire horror. After Mia's mother was infected by an illness that forces her to feed on blood to survive, Mia had to grow up fast. But after having lived under the radar for over a decade, feeding her mother with her own blood, Mia longs for a life of her own. As she befriends the pretty barista and musician Jade, Mia begins to think maybe she could build a relationship of her own after all. But a decade of blood is hard to escape, and Mia's mother won't let her go easy.

Note: if the toxic Laudna and Delilah dynamic intrigues you, you can't do better than this.

The Circle by Sara B. Elfgren & Mats Strandberg*

Young adult, urban fantasy. In the small town of Engelsfors, something has woken up. Dark forces are moving in, and only a prophesied chosen witch will be able to stop it. Only, there are more than one chosen, and they will have to learn to work together despite their differences. Struggling against demons, an overbearing council of witches, and regular teenage issues like bullying and first love, this group of girls must come together or the world will burn.

Note: The f/f ship is mostly subtext and build-up in the first book, but does get more central in the sequels.

Bitterthorn by Kat Dunn

Historical fantasy, sleeping beauty retelling. Living with a father and stepmother who barely see her, Mina has long felt unloved. When a feared Witch comes to fulfill a centuries old curse - claiming someone from the town to come be her companion - Mina volunteers herself. But in her rush to flee the loneliness of her old home, Mina now finds herself isolated in the Witch's castle instead. Secrets hides in the castle's tower, forbidden from Mina, and the Witch evades her every attempt to find out the truth even as the two inexorably grow closer. But they can't evade the Witch's curse forever.

Note: scary, isolated outcast witch meets lonely princess who hopes to break her dark curse.

Monstrous by Jessica Lewis

Young adult dark fantasy. Having been kicked out by her mother, Latavia is forced to spend her last summer before college living with her aunt and cousin in the strange little town of Sanctum. Unnerved by the creepy town and its secrets, Latavia can't wait to leave again - except she'll miss the cute girl working in the local ice cream shop. But Latavia's plans come to a halt when she's dragged into the forest and sacrificed to a monster. Luckily for her, the monster has its own goals, and it's willing to work with her for both of them to find vengeance.

Note: human sacrificing cults, monstrous patrons, and lots of discussions of trauma.

The Scorpion Rules by Erin Bow*

Young Adult dystopia. In a future in where peace is upheld by an all-powerful AI keeping the children of world leaders hostage, Greta has lived an isolated life away from her family. If her country is ever to enter a war, she will be executed, forcing her to live in constant fear. But things start to change one day when a new, less obedient hostage arrives.

Note: A unique, slowburn take on the YA dystopian craze, also featuring a bisexual love triangle, best friends to lovers, breaking of cycles, and the risk of losing your humanity to a possibly corruptive greater force.

Bonus books I haven't read!

Babylove by I.S. Belle

Young adult. To avoid summer school, goth girl Frankie Tanner is convinced to help Ivy Wexler, a cheerleader who just resurrected her dead cat.

Two Broke Witches by Kate Starling

Fantasy romance. Delilah and Iris, death witch and nature witch respectively, have been rooming together for a year, ignoring their attraction for each other. But when they come at risk of losing their home, they must come together to save their apartment building.

Ghost Walk by Kay Solo

Orphaned and feared for her ability to see the dead, Maaya Sahni has spent her life keeping her head down. But when an entire street of people are disappeared by terrifying, faceless specters, it's up to Maaya, a friendly ghost with no memory, a strange man, and a beautiful pirate captain to save the day.

The Maiden and Her Monster by Maddie Martinez

When the monster of the woods kills a girl and Malka's mother is accused of her murder, Malka strikes a deal: lure out the monster and her mother will be spared. But the monster isn't what she expected, but rather a disgraced golem who offers her own deal: she will willingly hand herself over, but first Malka must help save the rabbi who created her.

The Untimely Undeath of Imogen Madrigal by Grayson Daly

Serving at the convent of the Sisterhood of Good Death, Maeve works to shepherd souls into the afterlife. But when the poet Imogen Madrigal returns from the dead not as a spirit but in the flesh, Maeve is given a new purpose: find Imogen's murderer.

The Coldest Touch by Isabel Sterling

Young adult fantasy. Elise is cursed to see her loved ones' deaths with but a touch. After having failed to prevent her brother's death, she's desperate for any way to be rid of her curse. Claire is a vampire assigned to help the unwilling Elise master her ability.

Honorary mentions AKA this one didn't really work for me but maybe you guys will like it:

Witching Moon by Poppy Woods

A witch accidentally summons the literal moon, who just so happens to be a very beautiful woman, into her house. Shenanigans ensue.

[ghostiesnightmare]

Your writing is EVERYTHING - from the details to the plot, I cannot describe how you can do that !

Request ;Michael sparing your life when you do something that makes him curious and excited - like kneeling in front of him or something like that ! I writed something like this on another account, but you write so good you have to do something with this !

With blood, knife Play, choking, some very very brutal Mikey, Pain kink-

Sorry for my bad english, my first language is french 😘

Salvation

Pairing: Michael Myers x Female Reader Summary: You were never supposed to survive him. You could have fled and buried the haunting memory of that fateful night– yet something draws you back to the ruins of faith and blood. Back to a place where your fear turns into something more like devotion. TW: DARK content, heavy religious influences, dubcon, blood, gore, knifeplay, choking, foul language, BLASPHEMY, unprotected sex, rough sex, vivid descriptions of pain, power imbalance, abuse, and more. Read at your own risk Word Count: 8,081 MDNI-NSFW A/N: This fic is HEAVILY reliant on Christian influences, so please read at your own risk. I recommend listening to Christian Woman by Type O Negative, which I had on repeat while writing this fic. I really struggled with this one, ngl... enjoy!

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They say fear is the oldest and strongest emotion– primal and unrelenting. It’s an instinct woven into every creature, the deciding factor between life and death. The fear of the unknown is the greatest thing of all, or so Lovecraft once claimed. Yet, something about the quote never sat right with you. Fear is a fleeting thing– it tends to lack depth. It’s a faceless ghost– the sensation of goosebumps prickling against skin, the jitter in your bones as you shiver from adrenaline. But no matter how hard you tried to picture it, to show it, the emotion evaded you. 

You groaned, fingers moving instinctively across the page of your sketchbook as you tried to capture the essence of the scene before you. The town square was buzzing with movement– costumed figures prowling through the streets, faces covered in an assortment of masks and bodies disfigured under layers of fabric. Children clutched worn pillowcases, bounding from vendor to vendor in order to get their hands on a new sweet treat, parents following closely behind. Haddonfield’s annual Halloween Jamboree was nothing short of tradition, the mid-sized town throwing a lavish festival the Friday before the week of Halloween, something about being family friendly– as the mayor had said a few years back. The event itself was always a hit, with college students flocking the scene from the nearby campus once the sun had fully set and the adults could come out and play. The festivities, as cheerful and decorative as they were, hid a much darker secret. 

As Halloween approached, so did the threat of death. As much as people tried to ignore it, no matter how close parents held their children, no matter the curfews or buddy systems– death always came to collect. A heavy exhale escaped you, thumb smudging the shadows of the sketched scene, darkening the edges– there, it almost looked real. Almost alive. Gazing over the sketch of haunting figures parading down the sidewalk, something caught your eye. A frown caught on your lips, brows furrowing. Holding up the sketch to the darkened sky, you glanced upwards, comparing fiction from reality. A muddled shape etched into the background of the town square– had you meant to draw that? A smudge… no, a figure, so faint it was nearly swallowed up by the charcoal shadows, standing just in front of the treeline– watching.

“You’re doing it again.” The sound nearly made you jump out of your skin. Whirling your head around, the sketchbook clattered onto the wooden bench, now forgotten. Tiffany leaned over your shoulder, brow cocked in amusement at your jumpy state. Rolling your eyes at her antics, you quickly scooped up the sketchbook, frustration bubbling in your stomach. “Jesus Tiff, you scared the shit out of me–” Your gaze caught the shape of the charcoal pencil on the concrete, “–ugh, my pencil! You owe me a new one.” You huffed out, gingerly rolling the ruined utensil between your fingers. Tiffany mumbled out an apology while moving around the bench, the scent of cigarettes invading your nostrils as she collapsed next to you. “Seriously babes, it’s almost Halloween– not some art critique.” Her nose scrunched at that, and you shoved her shoulder halfheartedly. She squealed at your assault, shoving you back before continuing. “...Can you put down the creepy sketches for one night? Jennifer and I skipped the callbacks afterparty to be here.” She pouted, those damn doe eyes burning into you, guilt gnawing in your stomach. 

You sighed, tucking the sketchbook into your backpack. “I know, I know… I’m just–” “–Being a little weirdo like always?” Jennifer cut in, plopping into the open spot to your right on the bench. She grinned at you, pushing a beer bottle into your hand, the other gripped around another glass. You instantly took a swig, grimacing as the warm taste of stale beer invaded your senses. “C’mon, this is like the last Friday we have together before rehearsals start! We have to do something fun.” She mused, Tiffany nodding along absentmindedly while she fiddled with her jeans. “This is fun!” you protested, but you couldn’t help but smile at them, knowing they had already won you over. Tiffany and Jennifer were your vices– they could convince you to do just about anything, no matter how much you disagreed with them. That’s what made your friendship so strong, they pushed you out of your comfort zone, and you kept them from going off the deep end. 

Something about tonight, however, felt different. The Halloween Jamboree was too loud, too bright, too crowded. The air buzzed with anticipation of an unnamed influence, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straight. Jennifer drained the last of her drink, tossing the bottle haphazardly behind her with a smirk. She straightened suddenly, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she looked you and Tiffany over. “You know what we really need?” She questioned, and your stomach dropped a bit. The last time she uttered that phrase it resulted in you being banned from half the frats on campus after she stole the composite pictures from Lambda Chi Alpha. You chuckled slightly, the image of her drunkenly tackling a pledge like a linebacker with the picture cradled in her arms flashing in your mind. Tiffany cocked a brow, apprehension coating her response, “What?” Jennifer flashed a wolfish grin, plucking the beer from your hand, ignoring your whines. 

She took a swig, contemplating her words before speaking, “–We need a real scare. I say we do something actually terrifying…” She glanced at the costumed children in front of her, brows furrowing before she added, “-None of this kiddie haunted house bullshit.” Tiffany was instantly intrigued at the prospect, but you were less assured. “Like what?”, you questioned, yanking the beer bottle back into your hands and taking a sip. Jennifer shrugged, but Tiffany’s eyes gleamed– an idea popping into her head and she grabbed your shoulder. “I mean… There is that old church just outside of town.” She mused, Jennifer quickly taking the bait. “That’s perfect! You’re a genius, Tiff.” Your heart skipped a beat at the suggestion. The church. 

You had heard the rumors, the stories. Some said it had been abandoned for decades after the fire ravaged the building, leaving the charred remains scattered along the forest floor to rot. Others said it never had been abandoned, the decaying steeple housing something much more sinister. Whispers of the couple that was brutally murdered earlier this year quickly fluttered through your mind, their warped corpses draped over the altar. “Demon worshipers”, the sheriff had said, but you weren’t so sure. The church was your secret– having been obsessed with the dark ruins that seemed to swallow you up every time you walked through the doors. You had sketched it from memory countless times, the skeletal archways and dusty pews burned into your brain. Something about it always called to you. 

Jennifer’s grin only widened, and you fought to keep your expression neutral. “What do you think, scaredy cat?” She mocked, the beer turning sour in your mouth at the taunt. “–Think you can handle it?” You swallowed thickly, debating saying something. You wanted to say no, the idea of having your friends trample around your safe space making your stomach churn. ‘It’s not safe’, you wanted to plead, ‘–it’s dangerous’. Instead, you found yourself pulling your backpack over your shoulders. “Let’s go.” You mumbled, causing an excited squeal to erupt from your friends, who were hot on your heel. You quickly finished the beer, tossing it into a stray trash can as you passed, a heavy sigh building in the back of your throat. Three girls exploring a haunted church a few nights before Halloween… what’s the worst that could happen?

__

The church was always grim at night. Like an icon to broken faith, it loomed over the treeline– the charred steeple cutting through the horizon like a knife. The rusted iron gate stood ajar, the hinge groaning as you pushed it further open, like a mouth leading into darkness. The wind howled in the distance, whipping through the shattered windows– making the building sound as if it were breathing. You shivered against the cold, braving onwards. Leaves crunched under your boots as you walked, Tiffany and Jennifer following closely behind. Weaving through the asymmetrical headstones of the cemetery, you paused at the entrance of the church, Tiffany tripping over her feet as she glanced upwards. The wood of the heavy doors had deteriorated over time, moss and mushrooms sprouting from the ground upwards. You leaned against the heavy door, pushing one open with a grunt. The wood gave way, the rusty hinges screaming as you opened the door. Stepping inside, the three of you gaped upwards, taking in your surroundings.

“I need a cigarette.” Jennifer mumbled, eyes trailing the stained glass depicting different saints and angels. The moonlight streamed through the gaping holes in the ceiling– the rafters in various stages of decay as your eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Sidestepping a fallen pew, you made your way forwards, navigating through the familiar maze of stone and wood. The air was thick with rot and dust, hanging heavy around you like a weighted blanket. Your hand traced the ornate carvings of a confessional booth, the wood now splintered and covered in graffiti. A place once considered to be holy– now desolate and abandoned. Jennifer rammed into the overturned pew, obscenities flying from her mouth. Ushering the duo over, you pulled them to the back of the church, the cracked marble of the altar glowing faintly under the moonlight. The air stilled here, a chill seeping into your bones as you stared forward. Tiffany straightened, swallowing thickly. “Is... is that where–?”

You nodded, the gruesome crime scene photos from the newspaper flashing in your mind. Jennifer, ever fearless, moved forward. Brushing her hand against the altar, she hopped up, legs swinging as she sat on the resting place of two unfortunate souls. Your stomach boiled at the disrespect, but you held your tongue. “Ya know…” She started, fishing out a cigarette from her pocket. Lighting it, she took a drag before continuing. “Some say they saw the devil before they died. That’s why the police never found their killer.” Tiffany shuddered at the statement, eyes catching a drop of dried blood hidden underneath the altar. You rolled your eyes, “Their friends were drunk. I mean…” You gestured around yourself to the decaying church, “-Who else comes to a church to play the Ouija board? They were seeing things.” Jennifer pushed off of the altar, heels clicking against the dusty floor as she took another drag. She exhaled, blowing the smoke into your face– your eyes stinging as a cough ripped from your throat. 

You snatched the cigarette from her fingers, anger building. “Whether you believe in it or not, go smoke outside. You’re being rude.” Jennifer’s brows furrowed, an angry pout building on her lips as she glowered at you. “Jeez, someone’s got their panties in a twist tonight.” She huffed out, taking the butt of the cigarette from your hands and moving towards the front door. “I’ll be a minute…” She called over her shoulder, eyes meeting yours with a twinge of irritation. “–Don’t wait up.” Her footsteps retreated outside, and Tiffany sank into a wooden pew– trying to steel her nerves. Your fingers twitched, itching for your sketchbook. You wanted to capture the essence of the church, something about it so harrowing it stayed with you every time you left. The cracked altar, the rusted candelabras, the splintered organ shoved into the corner– it whispered to you, begging you to explore, to dive into the depths. 

You glanced at the altar once more, trying to imagine the final moments of those who came before you. The hiss of spray cans against stone, the clink of beer bottles and the smell of cigarette smoke. The whispers to a wooden board, the shrieks of excitement as the planchette moved. An unexpected visitor– a struggle, a piercing shout– then nothing. Was the violence in a place deemed sacred the reason for your obsession? Or was it something darker, a force calling you from the bowels of the church? Did they pray to a god they didn't believe in as they were slaughtered, or did they know that they were forsaken? Your mind spun with the possibilities, fingers burning to sketch the outline of the saints etched into the wall. They had to have seen, they had to have known, yet nothing saved them… why? 

A gurgled scream tore through the stale air, causing your spine to stiffen. Your head whirled, eyes meeting the frantic Tiffany, who shot out of the pew. You both turned towards the noise, fear settling in the pit of your stomach. Jennifer. Your throat dried, heart pounding in your chest as you called out– a piece of you begging, pleading for a response. Nothing. The silence seemed to swallow you whole, your feet anchoring you in place. God, that scream– the sound seared into your brain as you gaped at the door. Tiffany bolted towards the front door, feet skittering across the assortment of debris littering the floor. Your brain yelled at you to move, to run and follow Tiffany, but you were frozen in place. Stumbling forward, she reached the expanse of the open door, darting out momentarily. Your heart leaped within your chest, mouth opening to speak– but any semblance of words died on your tongue. You looked upwards. The iconography of forgotten saints glaring down at you in the haze of night, solemn faces weathered by time. Is this how it felt to feel the wrath of God?

Tiffany rushed back inside, slamming the wooden door with a force so strong it made the church tremble. Deathly pale, she stumbled over the debris, collapsing in a heap a few feet from the doors. The smell of vomit filled the air, and you flinched. The sight of her– broken, trembling, driven half mad– snapped you from your trance. You whispered across the darkness, arms beckoning her towards you, but she remained rooted in place.  “What… What did you see?!” Tiffany choked on a sob, breath hitching. Snot ran down her face, and she whipped her face with her damp sleeve. “Tiffany–” Your voice hardened, urgency rising like bile in your throat. “–Where is Jennifer?” At the mention of her name, Tiffany went rigid. She shook her head violently, as if the words themselves would summon something terrible.  “She’s…”, Her fingers dug into the floorboards, clawing for something solid. “Oh god– she’s dead.” 

The words hung in the air– and a piece of you begged that it was some kind of joke. But nothing about the trembling girl in front of you seemed staged, it was all terrifyingly real. You swallowed hard, straining your ears for any sound of movement. Adrenaline began to flood your senses, your heart feeling like it was going to burst from your chest. The church was quiet– too quiet– the only sound coming from the wind whipping through the rafters. The heavy door shuddered slightly as it was pushed open once more, the shriek of the hinges catching your attention. The open doorway was a gateway to the void, no matter how hard you squinted darkness met your vision. Hope rose within your chest, pushing your shaking legs forward– one step, two. Maybe Jennifer had gotten hurt, maybe Tiffany saw the blood and panicked, maybe– just maybe your mind was playing tricks on you.

A shadow passed through the threshold of the doorway, thick and oppressive. Tiffany let out a pitiful whimper, shrinking further into the floor, refusing to look behind her and into the doorway. You squinted against the darkness, trying to make out the shape you swore you saw move into the entrance of the church. The stale air in the church thickened, and you swallowed dryly, eyes tracing the doorway. A stream of moonlight broke through the battered steeple, cutting through the darkness– and then you saw him. That godforsaken pale mask you had only heard of in ghost stories, those hollow eyes that burned into your skull. Like death itself, the boogeyman of Haddonfield had come to pay his due. Michael Myers. A part of you knew, deep down that Jennifer wasn’t coming back. Whatever had made her scream had already decided her fate, and even worse– you were next.

The church seemed to tighten around you, the air growing suffocatingly thick. Your knees locked in place, fear crackling through your veins. You should have known better, that there was no salvation in a house of God– not here, not tonight. Michael stepped further into the church, breaching the line of sanctuary, and you knew– no prayer would save you now. Tiffany tried to run, she really did– but nothing could keep her foot from catching on the edge of an upturned rock. She stumbled, a frantic yelp ripping from her throat as her twisted limb crumbled beneath her. Her fingers clawed at the floor, desperately trying to drag herself from the shadow looming over her. Gasping for air, she outstretched a hand– praying, begging for salvation. Like a lamb sent to slaughter. Your mouth went dry at the absolute irony of it all– hunted down in a revered sanctuary. Mentally you screamed at your legs to move, to give out, to do anything other than stand there and gape like a deer caught in headlights, but your feet remained rooted to the floor.

“God, please help me–” Tiffany sputtered out, calling out your name like a lifeline, tears streaming down her face as she writhed like an overturned bug. “... I don’t want to die–”. The pitiful words pounded in your skull, yet you couldn’t tear yourself away from the scene. Michael refused to stop, hand gripping the back of her hair and pulling her head upwards off the floor. Her eyes met yours, and the blood drained from your face. The saints loomed overhead, their engraved expressions frozen in silent judgement, empty eyes watching, waiting. Their lips did not move to save her– for she was already damned. The knife came down in a single, unceremonious slice, severing the fragile skin of her throat. Her prayer gurgled on her tongue, blood spilling over her hands as she clawed at her throat. Tiffany convulsed, her eyes bulging from her skull as she choked on her own blood before deteriorating to the dusty floor. 

Silence fell over the church once more, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Your knees buckled beneath your weight, a dull pain stabbing into you as you collapsed. The stone needled through the denim of your jeans, and your hands trembled, barely supporting you. Michael moved onwards, a shadow cast by the hand of God– silent, inevitable. His gaze burned into you, scorching your flesh as you stared, unable to look away. The sickening dribble of blood, a calculated step, two. And then– slowly– you lowered your head. Your fingers curled into fists as your head dipped, breaths coming out in frantic huffs as you knelt, body possessed by something ancient, something primal. His overwhelming presence bore down on you, the outline of his boots barely visible under the curtain of hair pooling from your head, obstructing your view. Another deep sigh came from Michael– your judge, jury, and executioner– the knife, your penance, gripped tightly in his fist. 

“Please,” the word slipped from your lips before you could stop yourself, voice hoarse, resolve shattered. You couldn’t decipher what you were pleading for… the finality of your punishment– or deliverance? Your prayer echoed around the space, the weight of his gaze bearing down against you. The church walls stood, unmoving. The saints did not weep– the grounds did not split, swallowing you up into the depths of hell– just silence. You remained frozen, head bowed to the floor like a deranged sign of reverence. You didn’t dare to raise your gaze, not when you could feel him standing over you, his presence practically suffocating. Michael did not move, motionless above you. You could have sworn you heard him breathing– slow, steady, somehow human– but everything else surrounding him embodied the unnatural. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity, time itself faltering around him, heavy and stifling. 

Then, footsteps– slow and calculated. You squeezed your eyes shut as they receded, the jostling slam of the wooden door swallowing his form into the night. The cold rushed through your lungs as you gasped for air, shuddering as you released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Just as soon as he appeared, he was gone. For the first time since his untimely appearance, you forced your body to move– hands flattening against the floor as you shakily pushed yourself upwards. Blood coated the soles of your boots as you stumbled towards the entrance of the church, and you forced yourself to look. Tiffany’s motionless body lay mere inches from your laces, lifeless eyes staring blankly at the vaulted ceiling– eerily mirroring the saints glaring down at you.

 You knew Jennifer wasn’t going to be any better, another lost soul put in the wrong place, wrong time. Your fingers dug into the splintered wood of the door, and you pulled the door open, the frigid nighttime air biting into your skin. They were dead, but you– you were alive. Your stomach lurched, a strangled sob ripping from your throat as you dry heaved against the doorway. Your body shivered, wracked with fear, with grief, and something much worse. Something that burned in your chest like shame– something that felt like gratitude. 

__

The funeral was a blur. Jennifer’s family was a wreck, her mother sobbing openly as they lowered the casket into the ground. She clawed at the wooden box as if to drag her daughter back into the light– to life. Tiffany’s parents were more solemn, her father silently watching the scene unravel as he held his wife to his chest. There’s a saying you read in a book once, that parents only feel true sorrow when they bury their children within their lifetime. Seeing it all now, however, the saying was all the more horrific. You stood at the back of the service, nails digging into the palms of your hands– leaving crescents in their wake. The questions from the officers interrogating you just days before still swirled in your head, voices muffled against the sobs of the funeral party. 

We just wanted to explore, you had said. They ran– but I don’t know why I didn’t, too. You expected disbelief, the fragmented pieces of information you remembered painting a picture of the boogeyman you were sure had been blamed for many other crimes. In the end, the weight of two bodies– killed days before Halloween– seemed to be enough evidence that mirrored your claims. You didn’t cry– you couldn’t, not when you had survived. The guilt gnawed at you, clawing through your ribcage to the point where you felt like you couldn’t breathe. It was immeasurable, but there was something else growing within you– something darker. Michael had spared you, not due to mercy or luck, but from something you couldn’t quite place. He had watched you– stood over you with your life practically balanced between his fingers– and he walked away. Your mind couldn’t let it go, replaying the moments like a broken record, trying but failing to analyze what could have been your saving grace. 

You had stopped sleeping since that night. Every time you closed your eyes, he would be there, towering over you– a silent threat. You dreamed of him, not as the brutal murderer that ripped the life from your friends, but as something far from human. He was always there, lurking in the back of your mind like a shadow. Throughout the restless nights, you would toss and turn, the events of that forsaken night playing in an endless loop. The church. The knife. The screams. But most importantly, the haunting silence that followed. The air always felt heavy during the night, as if you were being watched– the hair on the back of your neck standing straight up as you tried to force your bloodshot eyes shut. You tried everything to relieve the stress: chamomile tea, lavender lotion, weighted blankets, a noise machine. Yet the sweet solace of sleep never came, the only semblance of rest coming from the daydreams that followed your every waking moment. 

You became withdrawn from school, the days bleeding together after the funeral into a mess of smeared memories. Your classmates assumed you were grieving the loss of your friends, the trauma uprooting your life in a way that left you… different. If only they knew the truth, the nightmares plaguing you at night, the guilt of it all, weighing down on you like a wet blanket. He consumed your life, from the moment you dragged yourself out of bed to the second you shut your eyes. It was as if you missed him– the thought alone made you feel sick. But it was there, those dark thoughts crawling within your chest, feelings you could only describe as a fucked up gratitude. Michael had spared you, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions. And no matter how hard you tried to push the feelings down and snuff out the curiosity, you wanted to find out why. 

The darkness manifested itself within your work. At first, you didn’t even notice– mindless doodles on your notes as the professor lectured in class, sketches charcoaled in your notebook during the nights you dreaded sleep. Somehow, he always managed to take form. The curve of the blade of the knife, the angle of his shoulders, the hollow outline of his mask. As your mind wandered, the page would fill with details you only could have imagined– the sharp curve of a nose, a widow’s peak of dark hair, steely eyes. Fingers would haphazardly turn the page, having a mind of their own as you zoned out. One page, then two, then three. By the time you looked down, snapping out of your haze, the paper was riddled with him. Your paintings began to darken– landscapes draped with shadows, an outline of a figure in the distance at the focal point. Images of the icons within the church became anything but saintly– empty sockets sunken into withered heads, the sight ghastly morbid. Clay sculptures related to broken bodies filled with deep slashes, hands outstretched for any semblance of mercy. 

During class critiques, even your professors noted the sudden change in your content– casting worried looks your way as their eyes scanned your work. “This feels… heavy. Haunted, almost.” You brushed the comments off, lying through gritted teeth. Some bullshit excuse on the study of trauma– yet you knew that it was further than the truth. But when you returned to your room, you found it transformed into a gallery of him. The paintings, the sketches, the sculptures burning holes within you– calling to you, taunting you. He was everywhere, like a stain you couldn’t scrub away. And although you hated to admit it, a part of you knew you couldn’t if you tried. 

You started to confess. Not to a priest or a therapist– but to your bathroom mirror, the warped reflection in the glass being your only comfort. Your fingers would trace the cool surface, hushed whispers filling the dim space. “I should have died–”, breath fogging up the glass as your dark confession echoed against the tiled walls. Voice shaking, you added: “... with them.” They were sane, choosing to scream and run in order to try and beat death. But you, you had knelt– and for that, you lived. Your nails dug into your palms so hard it drew blood, the dull needling through your skin in a way that made your head spin– the pain buzzing through you like a draw of a cigarette. You barely recognized the individual that stared back at you: skin flushed, hairline beaded with sweat, hands clammy. But the most unnerving was the look in your bloodshot eyes, swimming with a darkness you couldn’t quite place. 

It was wrong– falling into the abyss of sin, playing back the memories of that night with an almost obsessive admiration. You should have moved on by now, gone to therapy, maybe started medication and begun to pick up the shattered pieces of your life. Instead, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, chanting your own damnation like a prayer– fingers subconsciously tracing the shape of his mask against the glass. Images of you on your knees in the church flickered through your mind, and your chest tightened with something far more sinister than fear. Something worse… something reverent. You could still feel the weight of his gaze when he towered over you, encompassing you so thoroughly you could feel it in your soul. Tearing your gaze away from the mirror, the damp skin of your forehead pressed against the cool glass for comfort, mantras swirling in your head like a broken record player. There is no salvation in a house of God. 

You flicked your gaze to the bathroom door, an idea seeming a little too much like temptation sprouting within your mind. Maybe– just maybe– if not salvation, there was clarity found only in the place you had sunk to your knees all those nights ago. Pushing yourself away from the mirror, determination began to stir within your gut. You had to go back– to see. You couldn’t run away from your demons, you had to confront them. Slipping into the night air, a chill settled within your bones, an unknown force spreading goosebumps across your skin. As you trudged through the dark, you thought back to the pivotal moment: the scrape of the stone against your knees, the sound of his ragged breaths, the crushing tension crackling in the air like wildfire. It had felt– holy, the sensation gnawing at your stomach, clawing into your throat in a way that made you question your own sanity. 

No… not holy. But something dangerously close. 

__

The church loomed over you, eerily identical to that night. A sleeping beast– the rusted gate resembling a gaping mouth to the pits of hell, inviting you inside. You stepped through the threshold, the crunch of gravel the only noise as you approached the heavy doors. A part of you cursed your actions, the idea of coming back being nothing short than madness. You were chasing answers that were ghosts, fueled by trauma and grief– not by reasoning. And yet, you pushed onwards, hands steeled against the heavy wood. In your peripheral a small pool of dried blood painted the stone walls of the church, hosting the last moments of your friend’s life. You refused to look, swallowing thickly as you finally pushed the door open. The church welcomed you with open arms, the pull so heavy you felt as if you were possessed. 

Moonlight crept through the open ceiling, casting the interior in a ghostly haze. The church seemed frozen in time since your last visit– the cracked marble altar glaring back at you in an almost inviting manner. Your knees ache at the memory of kneeling there, a subconscious feeling of guilt burning against your throat, pulse quickening as you retraced your steps. Approaching the back of the church, the familiar scent of dust and rotting wood filled your nostrils– along with the undertone of something metallic. Your jaw clenched at that, eyes wandering to the broken pew that resulted in Tiffany’s death. The stale air suddenly shifted, and then you felt it– the weight of a presence behind you. Your breath caught in your throat, yet you refused to turn, already knowing the source. His boots scraped against the uneven stone, measured, calculated. The sound sent an electric current down your spine, causing you to stiffen beneath his gaze, eyes trained forwards towards the altar. 

A small part of you had imagined this moment, the possibility of returning to the scene fueled by the same darkness invading your artwork, your life. But the reality of him standing there, mere feet away from you was too much, consuming you whole. Your fingers twitched at your sides, forcing your body to move, to look– and there he was. Michael Myers stood behind the last row of pews, the moonlight casting his shadow across the church like death, untouched by time. The mask that plagued your dreams caught the light, its hollow eyes drinking in your frozen form, the call of the void. The knife was gripped loosely in his hand, dangling at his side– a stark reminder of his sins. You should be terrified, but for reasons you couldn’t even begin to explain, you weren’t. Something buzzed against your skin like an unspoken prayer, and you found yourself speaking before you could stop yourself, “I… I knew you would come back.”

Michael’s head tilted ever so slightly, silent at your words. He never spoke, you knew that much, but you felt his response– the action in itself almost mocking you. You could feel him, his presence so thick with tension it coiled around you like a snake, poised and ready to strike. You swallowed thickly, body betraying you as your knees buckled under his gaze, and before you could stop yourself, you were sinking to the floor. The cool stone dug into your knees, the familiar sensation almost comforting against your skin. A trembling breath escaped you as you knelt before him, unable to do anything but watch. Michael took a step forward, then another– the air thinning as he approached, boots halting inches from your knees. You craned your neck upwards, stomach churning as you gaped at the silent killer. He was so close you could feel his warmth, the scent of metal and something much more primal seeping into your senses. Your lips parted, but any semblance of begs died on your tongue. 

Instead, you whispered a confession– one that would seal your fate. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” You don’t know the things you do to me. There was a pause, a shift in the air as Michael looked down at you– studying you. The cold metal of the knife brushed your cheek, yet you did not flinch, your body rooted in place, entranced. You felt chosen– a sacrificial lamb that should have died all those nights ago, but somehow didn’t. But now here you were, offering yourself to him willingly. The knife nicked your cheek, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip at the sting, the blade glinting in the moonlight. Your heart hammered in your chest, threatening to crawl out of your throat. Would he end it now and finish what he started? Or– your eyes shifted from the blade to that unholy mask– would he let you live? The decision was his alone, his cross to bear. The knife inched closer, pressing into the cut so suddenly a whimper bubbled in your throat, leaving you waiting– wanting. 

The knife never strikes. Instead, it traces along your cheek, the tip ghosting along your jaw. Your breathing is shallow, uneven puffs filling the cool air as the metal pressed ever so slightly into your skin– a warning. You tilt your head upwards, bearing your throat to him– your offering. The action causes the tension in the air to snap, you feel it in the way the air becomes too heavy you feel as if you were suffocating. Michael doesn’t speak– he doesn’t have to, you know what he wants, what he has always wanted, and what the devil inside of you wants too. Forgive her, for she knows not what she does. Heat pools like hellfire in your stomach, and your tongue darts oh so subtly to lick your chapped lip. He moves at that, inevitable. A hand wraps around your throat, pulling you upwards with strength that seems far from human. Your hands clench into fists at your sides, fighting the urge to struggle against the touch as your toes scrape against the stone, begging for leverage.

His fingers wrap around your neck so forcibly your jaw groans from the pressure, thumb pressing against your hammering pulsepoint– beating for him. Your pulse flutters against his skin, throat bobbing as you try to breathe. You should be struggling, should be fighting, but something about the way his hold makes you feel owned ignites fire across your skin. His hold softens ever so slightly, and you greedily gulp in a breath, thighs clenching as something sinful churns in your gut. He leans down, mask scraping against your forehead as you drown in his gaze. The light catches, and a ghostly blue devours you, your blood turning to ice at the sight. His breath comes out in ragged huffs, escaping through the holes in his mask– washing over you like a baptism. You were drowning in him, but it was anything but holy; it was something much worse. 

You don’t know who moves first. All you know is that one moment you are gasping for breath in his hold, and the next he has his fist wrapped in your hair, dragging you towards the altar. Your scalp screams for relief under his hold, your legs struggling to root yourself as you are all but practically thrown on the altar. The marble is cold against your back, sinking through the thin material of your top– but not as cold as his touch. His hand wraps around your throat once more, holding you in place against the altar as goosebumps erupt across your skin. The knife trails down your chest– and before you can protest, the blade is cutting through your top, slicing the flimsy material into shreds. Your nipples harden against the frigid air, chest heaving as you look helplessly upwards. The tip of the knife traces over your left breast, tapping slightly against your pebbled nipple, causing a shudder to rip down your spine. The knife trails to the valley of your breasts before halting at the flesh above your heart, digging into the skin slightly. 

You grit your teeth at the sensation, a droplet of crimson rising to the surface from his ministrations. It was so wrong– knowing you were mere inches from death, yet the fire licking at your stomach left you spiraling towards sin. You clenched subconsciously, skin feeling suddenly too hot as the knife retreats from your skin. Thrown to the side, the knife clatters loudly against the marble, Michael’s hand cupping the abused mound roughly. His thumb dips into the blood, smearing it against your skin– tainting you. The hand around your throat squeezes teasingly, and your hips buck ever so slightly at the sensation. Your breath stutters as he paws at your breasts, rolling the sensitive flesh beneath his fingers. You shudder, a whine building in your throat from the pressure, tears pricking your eyes at the needling pain. You had never felt this way before– the pain coating your skin in a way that left your head spinning, thighs clenching around nothing as you squirmed against his touch.

His fingers brush down your naval, crudely unbuttoning your jeans before ripping them and your panties down your legs, leaving you naked against the marble. Your breath stutters, spine aching against the hard surface as Michael slots himself between your parted thighs. Your body is an offering– a sacrifice for the taking as your sins are laid bare. Michael’s fingers dig into the fat of your ass, hauling you closer to the edge of the altar, pressing your flesh against the scratchy denim of his jumpsuit. Your jaw trembles as your clit scrapes against the jumpsuit, sending overstimulating sparks up your spine. You jolt at the contact, Michael brazing onwards, groping, prodding at you like an unwrapped gift. His fiery touch was anything but gentle, his calloused fingers digging so hard against your skin you moaned weakly, wincing at the realization that bruises would be left in their wake. Michael let out a huff, seemingly pleased with your body laid out before him, hand retreating from you to unbutton his jumpsuit. Still held in place, you squirmed slightly, back screaming as you moved against the unpolished marble, chafing your skin. 

Every movement resulted in an intoxicating pain that sent you reeling, your penance. The worn stained glass cast a kaleidoscope of colors on Michael’s mask, the saints above watching in silence. Do the saints weep at your sin? Do they turn away? Your thoughts are torn away when the tip of his cock brushes against your folds. You panic, trying to push yourself upwards, babbling nonsense with his hand around your throat. You aren’t ready, you don’t think it will fit– but Michael is undeterred. Jutting his hips forwards, his cockhead dips between your folds, stretching you uncomfortably. You realize that it’s pointless to reason with the devil– if he wants something, he takes it. Your insides are screaming as Michael pushes onwards, driving into you inch by inch. The tears fall at that, stinging as they mingle with the blood on your cheek. You feel as if you are being split in two, thighs clenching so hard you worry you’ll snap. Michael’s hips meet yours, and you swear you can feel him in your throat. 

Leaving you with no room to adjust, Michael bottoms out, snapping his hips forward and starting a brutal pace. All you can do is take it, fingers reaching out to clutch at the fabric of his jumpsuit, the only thing grounding you as his hips stutter forward. You gasp, the stretch feeling as if you were burning from the inside out, tits bouncing as your back scraps against the altar. You openly sob now, the pace too intense, too rough– so full you feel as if there is nothing left but him. The denim of the jumpsuit brushed your clit again, sending an electrical current across your skin, tearing a broken moan from your throat. You were melting, skin so hot that you already feel as if you are in the pits of hell. Michael grunts, cock plunging into your gummy walls with such force your head spins. The sounds of your staccato gasps echo in the church, accompanied by the lewd squelch of your pussy sucking him in. If you were a better woman, you would have felt shame, yet the only thing you could feel was the ache between your thighs. 

With every thrust, the signing pain began to subside, turning into something so intense your mouth gapes. You suck in a shuddering breath, eyes rolling as his tip hits that oh so sensitive spongy spot, causing your toes to curl. The hand around your neck tightens, his grip unrelenting as you gasp for air. God, it's too much– your head spiraling from the shards of pain shooting up your back from the friction– yet you couldn’t do anything else but moan. “Michael–”, his name is a breathless plea, a wicked prayer as his weight sinks into you. Your body arches beneath him, a sinner consumed by rapture. A sheen of sweat coated your skin, dripping down the valley of your breasts. Michael’s hips rolled against you like a man driven mad– but you knew better, he was no man. 

The hand wrapped around your throat in a vice-like grip released, hips abruptly leaving yours as he pulled out, causing your pussy to flutter around air. Fingers digging into the fat of your hips, you were flipped as if you weighed nothing, tits crushed against the cool marble as you were pushed face down onto the altar. Your hair was quickly bundled around his fist, forcibly arching you against him as he realigned himself to your leaking hole– pushing himself back inside with ease. Your tongue lolled from your lips at the sudden shift in position, Michael’s cock delving even deeper within you. Pain shot through your already tender scalp, white sparks flying across your vision as you stared into the abyss of night laid out above you. Stars poked through the gaping hole of the church ceiling, the heavens glaring down at your sin– mocking you. Oh God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Your hips ground against the stone edge, your legs trembling under the weight of his brutal thrusts.

You had long abandoned any semblance of sanity, openly weeping as you fell from grace, utterly corrupted by the way his hips rolled against your ass. You clawed at the altar-top, nails chipping from the force as Michael barred down fucking into you so roughly your breath caught in your lungs. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach, pussy fluttering as the tension built within you– a testament to your sin. The action was anything but holy, the scent of sex practically dripping from your shaking form as you were bullied into from behind. The taste of metal invaded your mouth, teeth gnashing against the flesh of your cheek as a pitiful attempt to stifle your moans. You were his offering– his to take, his to taint, and you were falling fast. Your stomach tightened, tension becoming unbearable as your spongy walls were all but abused. 

The knife was still there– lying beside your head, discarded as if it was no longer needed. Then you realized– it wasn’t, he owned you now. And with that, the heavens collided. A scream tore from your throat as you came, relief flooding your body as your brain short-circuited, toes curling from the force. Michael fucked you through the orgasm, balls slapping against your clit in a way that left you in a sobbing, overstimulated mess. You clenched around him, his pace beginning to falter as Michael climbed towards his own release. Your knees gave out, your hair being the only anchor keeping you from collapsing. Michael’s breaths came out in primal huffs, a low growl slipping as he came– thick ropes of cum filling you to the brim. You shuddered at the feeling, mind blank with nothing but the sensation of the shallow thrusts of Michael stilling against you, pushed to the hilt. You struggled to catch your breath, heart practically beating out of your chest as you went lip under his hold. 

Michael pulled his softening cock from your folds, the sensation making you whine. Your lips fluttered at his retreat, cum spilling down your thighs as the void overtook you. Your hair was freed from his grasp, scalp tingling as you limply pressed your temple to the cool surface of the marble. His weight abruptly vanished, yet you were too fucked out to care. For a moment, you didn’t dare move, skin damp with sweat– with sin. Every inch of your skin burned, scrapes and bruises coating every surface, the corruption sinking into your soul. You were ruined– and yet you found yourself blindly reaching for him, fingers swiping air. Confusion wracked your form, and you weakly turned, fingers gripping the altar for support– but he was gone. The ritual was complete, the offering devoured. You had given him everything: body, mind, soul– and now there was nothing left.

Your discarded clothes pooled at your feet, a soulless reminder of the events that had taken place. A raw, broken sound escaped your chest– a laugh bubbling past your sobs. This was your penance, your punishment for offering yourself so willingly to something that would destroy you. Now, you were alone– utterly and completely at the mercy of God himself. A shiver crawled down your spine at the thought, knowing he had left you once before, yet you had returned. So what was stopping you from doing it again? Your lips parted ever so slightly, a single prayer slipping past– not to God, but to him. “Michael…” You knew there would be no response, only silence. But as you slowly gathered the ruined fabric at your feet, you knew deep down that he was listening. He was always listening. And now that you had offered yourself to him, he wouldn’t have to come for you; you would go to him. 

Because there is no salvation in a house of God, only him– and he is the only one left to worship.

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Peerage

JK Rowling: hello children Rowling: boy it's been sso trying lately Rowling: the british government keepss trying to give me a peerage Rowling: but i keep telling them 'look, i'm too busy with the transsphobia to wasste time cutting ribbonss at sshopping mallss' Rowling: i have my prioritiess

Poe: why do they want to give you a peerage? Rowling: Rowling: obvioussly edgar becausse i'm a beloved icon of british culture who wrote the mossst enduring british bookss sssince enid blyton! duh! Poe: Rowling: no actually itss becausse of the transsphobia

Poe: ok sorry i asked, you don't have to be sarcastic Rowling: i'm not being ssarcassstic Poe: King: Lovecraft: Koontz: Barker: Rowling: itss becaussse of the transssphobia Poe: King: Koontz: Lovecraft: Barker: Rowling: i'm really good at it Rowling: topsss, really

Poe: wait, so you're so transphobic that they want to give you an aristocratic title and permanent government position? Rowling: yess King: wow! i didn't know that was how the system worked over there Barker: no that's pretty much how it goes Poe: i was getting that impression

Rowling: now they've been after me for a while to accept a title Rowling: and i jusst keep telling them no i won't be dame baronesss viscountesss rowling Rowling: i'm a woman of the people! Rowling: i mean an adult human female of the people

Rowling: but i looked at the requirementss and i'd have to cut ribbonss at, like, 100 tesscosss a year Rowling: that would sserioussly cut into my tweeting time

Rowling: i mean, can you imagine? me? an arisstocrat? Rowling: the very idea! Rowling: why, i have nothing in common with thosse people! Rowling: now if you'll excusse me Rowling: i have to retire to my sscottish casstle and pen another manifessto againsst undesssirablesss

Koontz: wow! can i have a porridge too? Poe: no dean the british government system is very different than ours Poe: see, in america, you can't get major political power by demonizing an oppressed minority Barker: ah ha ha Barker: edgar you don't joke much but when you do Barker: to the bone ha ha

[wilwheaton]

When you watch The Curse, you are watching two children who were abused and exploited daily during production. No adults protected us.

This was originally published on my blog in August, 2022.

I had a wonderful time at Steel City Comicon this weekend. It was my first time at this particular con, so I didn’t know there was such a huge contingent of horror fans, creators, and vendors who attend.

I love horror, and I was pretty psyched to be in the same place as John Carpenter and Tom Savini, across the street from the Dawn of the Dead mall. Pittsburgh feels like one of the places horror was invented, at least to me.

A number of these horror fans came to see me, and asked me to sign posters and other things from a movie my parents forced me to do when I was 13, called The Curse. I had to tell each of these people that I would not sign anything associated with that movie, because I was abused and exploited during production. The time I spent on that film remains the most traumatizing time of my life, and though I am a 50 year-old man, just typing this now makes my hands shake with remembered fear of a 13 year-old boy who nobody protected, and the absolute fury the 50 year-old man feels toward the people who hurt him.

I told this story in Still Just A Geek, and I’ve talked about it in some podcasts I did on the promo tour, but I’ve never put it out in public like this, in its entirety.

I suspect someone at the publisher would prefer I tease this and hope it drives book sales from people who want to read all of it, but I honestly don’t want to have another weekend like this one where everything is awesome, except the few times people who have no idea (and why should they) put that fucking poster in front of me, and all the fear, abandonment, and trauma come flooding back as I tell them that I won’t sign it, and why.

To their credit, each person was as horrified as they should have been, told me they had no idea (if they didn’t read my book why would they), and quickly put the poster away. They were all understanding. I am grateful for that.

But I really don’t need to tell this story over and over again, so here it is, with a child abuse and exploitation content warning, so I can just tell people to Google it.

After Stand by Me, everything changed. The attention from entertainment journalists, casting directors, and especially teen magazines came pouring in. The movie was a generational hit, beloved by critics and audiences alike, and every single one of us could pick anything to do next.

River’s parents and his agent got him Mosquito Coast, with Harrison Ford, as his next movie. I also auditioned for the role, but I knew even then that River was going to book the job. He was perfect, and I’d have to wait a little bit for my opportunity to come along.

I went on a lot of theatrical auditions after Stand by Me. I had tons of meetings with directors and the heads of casting at every major studio. It was all a very big deal, and I felt like we were all looking for something really special and amazing as my follow-up to Stand by Me.

At some point, a couple of producers contacted my agent with an offer to play one of the leads in an adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Colour Out of Space.” The script was titled The Farm. (It would, of course, be changed when the film was released).

I read it. I did not like it. It was a shitty horror movie, and I saw that right away. It was the sort of thing you rented on Friday when the new release you wanted was already out of the store.

My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

I told my parents I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. I clearly recall thinking it was a piece of shit that would hurt my career.

It wasn’t the first thing that had come our way that I wanted to pass on, and every other time, it hadn’t been a very big deal.

Sidebar: I was cast in Twilight Zone: The Movie, in 1983. The film tells four stories, and I was cast as the kid who can wish people into cartoonland. It was a GREAT role, in a movie I still love. (Note that Twilight Zone had four directors. One of them got three people killed. The segment I was cast in was not that one. I mention this because too many people zero in on this to deflect from what this whole thing is actually about.)

But I was CONVINCED by my parochial school teacher that if I worked on The Twilight Zone, which she had determined was satanic, I would go to hell. (This woman and her bullshit played a big role in my conversion to atheism at a young age, but when she told me that, I was all-in on the supernatural story they taught us in religion class.) I was so scared, more scared than I’d ever been to that point in my life, I cried and wailed and begged my parents to not make me do the movie. And I never told them why, because I was afraid my dad would laugh at me for being weak and afraid. My agent tried to talk me into it, and I wouldn’t budge. It’s the only thing I deeply and truly regret passing on, and I really hate I made that choice for such a stupid reason.

Okay. Back to The Curse.

This time, when I told them how much I hated it, they wouldn’t listen to me. My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

That is, until they made me take a meeting with the producers of the movie, in their giant conference room on the top floor of a tall building in Hollywood. All I remember about this place was that it was huge; the table was way too big for the five of us who spread around it, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, but the room was still dark. There was a weird optical illusion in the center of the table, this thing they sold in the Sharper Image catalog, made from two reflective dishes with a hole in the top of one. You placed an object in the bottom of the bottom dish, and it made it look like that object was floating above the whole thing. They had a plastic spider in it. What a strange detail for me to remember, but it’s as clear in my memory as if I were sitting in that room right now.

One man, who I presumed was the executive producer, was European or Middle Eastern (I didn’t know the difference then, he was just Not Like People I Knew), and I was instantly afraid of him. He was intimidating, and seemed like a person who got what he wanted.

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

I don’t remember what they said to me in their pitch or anything other than how uncomfortable and anxious I was to even be in that room. I tried so hard to be grown up and mature, but I — and my parents — was way out of my depth. I’d done one big movie and that was it. We didn’t have my agent with us, who had lots of experience and would have known what questions to ask.

No, in place of my experienced agent, my mother had decided she was going to be my manager, and she tackled the responsibility with an enthusiasm that was only matched by her absolute incompetence and inability to go toe-to-toe with producers the way my agent did. She was outwitted, out-thought, and outmaneuvered at every turn.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

At some point, this man, who is represented in my memory by big Jim Jones sunglasses under dark hair above an open collar, said, “We are offering you a hundred thousand dollars and round-trip travel for your whole family. We will cast your sister, Amy, to play your sister in the movie.”

It all made sense, now. I was only thirteen, but I knew my parents were pushing me so hard because this company was offering me — them, really — more money than I’d ever imagined I’d earn in my life, much less a single job.

I knew that the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to say no. There would be other opportunities, and it was stupid to cash myself out of feature films for what I thought was, in the grand scheme of things, not very much money.

It’s incredible to me that I knew all of this. It’s incredible to me that I could see all these things, plainly and clearly, and my parents couldn’t (or, more likely, chose not to).

So after this man made his offer, all the adults in the room ganged up on me, selling me HARD on this movie.

My mother said, “Don’t you want your sister to have the same opportunities you’ve had? Wouldn’t it be fun and exciting to go to Rome? Think of all the history!”

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

I don’t think about this very often, because it’s super upsetting to me. Right now, I’m so angry at my parents for subjecting me and my sister to this entire experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In that moment, I felt bullied and trapped. All these adults were talking to me at the same time, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to go home and get out of this room. I just wanted to go be a kid, so I did what I’d learned to do to survive: I gave in and did what my parents wanted.

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

But here’s the thing: when you watch The Curse, you are watching two children, me and my sister, who were abused on a daily basis. The production did not follow a single labor law. They worked us for twelve hours a day, on multiple film units (while I work on First unit, second unit sets up and waits for me. When I should get a break to rest, they send me to Second unit, then to Third unit, then back to First unit. I was 13.) without any breaks, five days a week. I was exhausted the entire time. I was inappropriately touched by two different adults during production. I knew it was wrong, but I was so scared and ashamed, and I felt so unsupported, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew my dad wouldn’t believe me, and my mother would blame me. Anything to keep the production happy, that’s what she did. That was more important to her than the health and safety of her children. The director was coked out of his mind most of the time, incompetent, and so busy fucking or trying to fuck one of the women in the cast, he was worse than useless. He was a fading actor who was cosplaying as a director, as in over his head as my mother. My sister and I were never safe. Instead of harmless atmospheric SFX smoke, they set hay on fire in barrels and blew actual smoke onto the set. They took buckets of talc, broken wood, bits of wallpaper and plaster, and threw it into my face during a scene inside the collapsing house. My sister is in a scene where she goes to get eggs from some chickens, and they attack her. So they hired Lucio Fulci, the Italian horror master, to direct her sequence. His idea, which everyone was totally on board with, was to throw chickens at my sister. Live chickens, live roosters, live birds. Just throw them at a nine-year-old girl. Oh, and then tie them to her arms and legs so they’ll peck her. All of this happened under my mother’s observation, and with her full participation.

Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

If just ONE of the things I can remember happened to someone I loved, I would have grabbed my kids, gone to the airport, and flown home. Fuck those abusive assholes in the production. Let the lawyers sort it all out. Nobody hurts my children and gets away with it.

My mom says she “had some talks” with the producers. She claims that, once, she wouldn’t let us leave the hotel. (God, what a fucking dump that place was. It was just slightly better than a hostel.) I have no memory of that, but honestly the entire experience was so traumatic, I’ve blocked most of it out.

The movie was the commercial and critical failure I knew it would be. My parents spent the money. I don’t know what they spent it on. I got to keep fifteen cents of every dollar, so . . . yay?

My sister and I hardly ever talk about this. I suspect it was as upsetting and traumatic for her as it was for me. I told her I was writing about it, and asked her if she remembered anything. She told me she’d been lied to her whole life about this movie. Our mother let her believe she had been cast on the strength of her audition. “I was excited to work with you,” she said. She reminded me about some stuff I’d blocked out, including a scene where my character’s older brother (played by an actor named Malcolm Danare, who was kind and gentle, and made both of us feel safer when he was around) shoves my character into a pile of cow shit. When it came time to shoot the scene, the mud they’d put together to be the cow shit looked an awful lot like cow shit. When Malcolm pushed me into it, we all found out it was real cow shit. I was FURIOUS. The director had lied to me and had allowed me to have my entire body shoved into an actual pile of actual cow shit. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember he treated me the exact same way my father did whenever I got upset: he laughed at me, told me I was being too sensitive, reminded me that he was the director and he wanted to get a “real” performance out of me, and concluded, “If it bothers you so much, we’ll get you a hepatitis shot,” before he walked away.

My sister also recalled that, after she survived the scene with the chickens, it was the producers’ idea to give her one as a pet.

Okay, let’s unpack that for a quick second: you’ve been traumatized by these birds, so we’re going to give you one as a pet. That you’ll somehow keep in your hotel, and then will somehow get back to America. It will shock you to learn that neither of those things happened.

She remembered, as I do, the huge fight I had with my parents in our kitchen, where I told them I hated the script and I hated the movie. I didn’t want to do it, and I hated that they were making me do it.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

“This is the only film you are being offered,” my mother lied to me. She made me feel like, if I didn’t do this movie, I would never do another movie again in my life. I had to do this movie. As my father bellowed, I had no choice.

Both of my parents denied this argument ever happened. Can I tell you how reassuring it is to know that my sister, who was also there, remembers it the same way I do?

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them.

But one thing she told me, the thing I did not know, the thing that makes me so angry I want to break things, actually managed to make the entire experience even worse than I remembered it.

There’s a scene after her chicken incident where I check up on her in her bedroom. She’s got cuts and bruises, and I guess we talk about it. I don’t remember and I can’t watch the movie because I’m terrified it will give me a PTSD flashback (I’ve had one of those and I recommend avoiding it). Here’s the thing about that scene: she has some cuts on her face, and those cuts are real. They are not makeup.

I’m going to repeat that. My nine-year-old little sister had actual cuts on her face that were placed there by an adult, on purpose.

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them. My sister told me our mother wasn’t in the makeup room when this happened — honestly, it seemed like our mother was strangely and conveniently absent when most of the really terrible things happened to us on the set — and when my sister told her what they’d done, she “lost her shit” at the production. She was pissed, I guess, which is appropriate and surprising. I wonder what would have to have happened for her to put us on a plane and get us home to safety? I mean, her son being abused daily didn’t do it, and her daughter being CUT IN THE FACE ON PURPOSE didn’t do it.

I just . . . I can’t. I can’t understand or comprehend allowing your own children to be physically and emotionally abused. They were literally selling my sister and me to these people, like we were some kind of commodity.

This was a tough conversation. My sister’s experience with our parents is very different from mine. My sister and I love each other. We’re close. I know it’s hard for her to hear that her brother, who she loves, was so abused by her parents, who she also loves. I was really grateful she made the time to talk to me about it, and grateful the experience wasn’t as horrible for her as it was for me.

As we were finishing our call, Amy also remembered one man, a young Italian named Luka, who was our driver for the movie. I haven’t thought about him in thirty years, but I can see his face now. He was kind, he was friendly, he taught us how to kick a soccer ball, and in the middle of an abusive, torturous experience, he stood out as a kind and gentle man. I mention him because she remembered him, which made me remember him, and goddammit I want at least one small part of this thing to not be awful.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares.

Ultimately, as I predicted and feared, this piece of shit movie cashed me out of respectable films forever. I got offers for movies, but they were always mindless comedies or exploitative horror films. They were never the serious dramas I wanted to work in after Stand by Me. The industry looked at me and River, wondering if one or both of us would become a breakout star. They quickly saw that River was doing real acting work, and I was in this piece of shit. For River, Stand by Me was a beginning. For me, it would turn out to be pretty much everything, at least as far as film goes.

There are thousands of reasons film careers do and don’t take off. Maybe mine wouldn’t have taken off anyway. Clearly, it’s not where my life ended up, and I’m super okay with that now. But when all of this happened, it hurt and haunted me.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares. Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

This annotation is the last thing I wrote before I turned this manuscript in, because opening these wounds is hard and painful. I put it off as long as I could, and I feel like I’m still holding back, because just this small glimpse of the experience has taken me a week to write. I can’t imagine trying to go back and unpack the whole thing. (Note that is not in the book: I’ve made an EMDR appointment to work on this because the nightmares have come back after the weekend).

Fuck The Curse, and fuck every single person who exploited and hurt two beautiful children to make it. You all participated in child abuse, and you all knew better. Shame on all of you. I hope this follows you to the end of your life. I hope that living with what you did to innocent children has been as hard for you as it has been for me, because you deserve no less.

[teamingmate]

What Wakes Alone in Ice: The digest-sized paperback version is here!!

Want my Reanimator + The Thing + Lovecraft Antarctic horror adventure/queer romance fic mashup on your shelf?? [AO3 link (18+)] It's available for $7 USD + shipping. You can order and get it sent straight to you at [this link].

For transparency, since I legally can't profit from IPs that aren't my own, production cost of the book is exactly $7 and I make no commission:

These copies feature a couple of my illustrations too. Readers, I really appreciate your support for this work ♥︎ ♥︎  And thank you to my friend Scully for binding this first & inspiring me!! I had a lot of fun laying out the cover and interior.

!! Tags and content warnings can be found on AO3. This is an 18+ adult work. !!

[literallys-illiteracy]

Project Moon Reading list

this is mt attempt at a comprehensive list of the references in Project Moon Games.

if you have any that arent listed, feel free to share them.

Lobotomy Corporation:

SCP-049 (Plague Doctor) (Speculated)

Portrait of Dorian Grey (Portrait of Another World; Mirror Of Adjustment) (Speculated)

Bible (One Sin and Hundreds of Good Deeds, Plague Doctor, Skin Prophecy, Flesh Idol, Burrowing Heaven, Express Train to Hell, Whitenight, Carmen)

Midsummer Nights Dream (Fariy Festival)

[Radio Station] UVB-76//The Buzzer (1.76Mhz)(Speculated)

Necronomicon//General Lovecraft (Skin Prophecy)

Colour Out of Space (Fragment of the Universe) (speculated; Thematically almost certainly lovecraft inspired)

The Little Match Girl (Scorched Girl)

Beauty and the Beast (Beauty and the Beast)

The Red Shoes (Red Shoes)

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (Scarecrow searching for wisdom; Warm Hearted Woodsman)

Colour Out of Space (Child of the Galaxy) (speculative)

The Snow Queen (The Snow Queen)

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (Rudolta of the Sleigh)

[Opera] Der Freischutz (Der Freischutz)

Snow White and the seven dwarves (Snow White's Apple)

Alarune (Alriune) (speculative)

The Little Prince (Little Prince)

Little Red Riding Hood (Little Red Riding Hooded Mercenary; Big and Will be Bad Wolf)

Three Little Pigs (Big and Will be Bad Wolf)

The Six Swans (Dream of a Black Swan) (Speculative)

[Music] Bethoven's Moonlight Sonata (Il Pianta De La Luna, Silent Orchestra)

[Film] Spirited Away (Mountain of Smiling Bodies) (Design) (Speculative)

Wonderlab specific:

Alice's adventures in wonderland (Red Queen, Hookah Butterfly)

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (Scaredy Cat and the road home)

The little mermaid (Piscence mermaid)

Midsummer nights dream (Titania)

[Conjecture/Heavy Speculation] Snow Queen or Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (Nobody Is)

Rapunzel (Tangle)

Lady in the Lake (White Lake)

Mythology and Folklore:

[Buddhist] Preta (Clouded Monk)

[Celtic] Faerie (Fairy Festival)

[German] Der Freischutz "The Freeshooter" (Der Freischutz)

[German] Doppelganger "Double Walker" (Nothing There) (thematic)

[German] Nachtkrapp "Night raven" (Big Bird) (Speculative; Personally unconvinced)

[Greek] Stymphalian birds (Punishing Bird) (Speculative)

[Greek] Pygmalion//Galatea (Pygmalion)

[Japanese] Baku (Void Dream)

[Japanese] Jubokko "Tree Child" (Grave of Cherry blossoms)

[Jewish] Kabbalah (Tree of life, Malkuth, Yesod, Netzach, Hod, Tifret, Gevurah, Hesed, Chokma, Binah, Keter, Ayin)

[Jewish] Succubus//Incubus (Porccubus)

[Korean] Urban Legend regarding "Grape Welch Soda" (An Opened Can of Welcheers)

[Norse] Yggdrasil (Parasite Tree) (Speculative: Giant Tree Sap)

[Roman] Justicia // Lady Justice (Judgement Bird)

[Roman] Laetitia (Laetitia)

[Russian]  Zhar-ptitsa "The Firebird" (The Firebird)

--------------

Library of Ruina:

Library of Babel

Do Androids dream of electric sheep? (Thematic, Achievement name)

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (The Adult Who Tells Lies, Scaredy cat and the road home)

The Marvelous Land of Oz (Ozma)

Town Musicians of Bremen (The Musicians of Bremen)

The Jaunt (WARP trains)

Nosferatu (Nosferatu)

Macbeth ("And then is Heard no more")

[Film] The hour of the wolf (Tanya)

[tarot] The fool (Jester of Nihil)

[poetry] Sky, Wind, Stars, and Poem (SPB&TP mili song) (thematic)

[poetry] Orlando furioso /& Orlando Innamoratto. (Roland and related cast (Argalia, angelica, etc.))

---------------

Limbus Company

The Divine Comedy (Dante & surrounding cast)

The Wings (Yi Sang & co.)

Faust (Faust)

Don Quixote (Don Quixote)

Hell Screen (Ryoshu)

The Stranger//L'etranger//The Outsider (Meursault)

Dream of the red chamber (Hong Lu)

Wuthering Heights (Heathcliff & Co.)

Moby Dick//The Whale (ishmael & Co.)

Crime and Punishment (Rodion & Sonya)

Demian (Sinclair & Co.)

The Odyssey (Outis, Cyclops)

The Metamorphosis (Gregor)

Limbus Company - Minor References:

Peter pan (Smee)

Sherlock Holmes: (Timekilling Time Stage Names)

Scandal in time (Scandal in Bohemia)

A Case of the Gallows (A Case of Identity) (speculative)

The Adventure of three detectives (The Adventure of Three Students)

The White Scarved League (The Red Headed League)

The Clock Tower of Fear (Valley of Fear)

The Final Problem (The Final Problem)

Midsummer night dream (Midwinter Nightmare EGO gift)

The Time Machine (Hubert from TKT) (Speculative)

The Stars (Alfonso and Stephanette)

The Old Man and The Sea (Indigo elder) (Speculative)

Murder on the Orient Express (Murder on the WARP express)

Vampire the Masqurade (Casseti) (Speculative)

The Masque of the Red Death (Casseti) (Speculative)

The one who rules (Stage name "the one who lords") (speculative)

Real People:

League of nine:

Kim Kirim (김기림) (Rim)

Yi Hyoseok (이효석) (Aseah)

Lee Jong-myeong (이종명) (Yurang)

Kim Yu-yeong (김유영) (???/ Unnamed Member)

Chi-Jin Yoo (유치진). Pen name: Dongrang (동랑) (Dongrang)

Cho Yong-man (조용만) (Aneung)

Lee Tae-jun (이태준) (Sang-heo)

Jeong Ji-yong (정지용) (Young-ji)

Lee Mu-young (이무영) (Gap-ryong)

Park Taewon (박태원) (Gubo)

Kim Hae-Gyeong (김해경). Pen name Yi Sang (이상) (Yi Sang)

Park Pal-yang (박팔양) (???/ Unnamed member)

Gim Yujeong (김유정) (Dongbaek)

Kim Hwan-tae (김환태) (Nul-in)

other(s):

Agatha Christi (Grade 1 Fixer Agatha)

Kim Sakkat (Bamboo Hatted Kim)

Alphonse Daudet (Alfonso)

Vergil (Vergillius)

EGO and Abnormalities:

Midsummers Night Dream (Midwinter Nightmare) (EGO gift)

Carmilla (400 roses Anormality) (Carmilla EGO gift)

Metropolis (Resident of Metropolaris) (Speculative)

Snow White and the seven dwarves (Ebony Queen's Apple)

Pride and Predgudice (Spider of Marrige)

Poem of a dying butterfly (no.10 Crows Eye View) (A Dying Butterfly

Rudolph the red nosed Reindeer (Sandolph)

[Religion, Abrahamic religions] (Skin Prophet) (Heavenly Executioners throne) (Sign of Roses) (Heavenly Commanders Throne) (Broken Wings) (ichthys (Headless ichthys))

[Religion, Buddhist] (Ya Śūnyatā Tad Rūpam EGO) (My Form Empties)

[Folklore, Celtic] Faeries (Fairy Long-Legs, Fairy Gentleman, Faelantern)

[Folklore, German] Der Freishutze (Der Freishutze) (Der Fluchshutze)

[Folklore, Korean] The Green Frog (Blubbering Toad)

[Folklore, Korean] Dol hareubang (Wishing Cairn) (Pagoda Veneration)

[ckret2]

What are some of your favorite books?

This is not an exhaustive list. I have read a fucking lot of books. I guarantee you I have forgotten 8 out of my top 10 favorites.

Here are the answers that would make my literature teachers proud:

Grendel; To The Lighthouse; Dracula but I was into Dracula before it was cool; Don Quixote; a moment ago I had two others but I forgor

Here are some other answers:

When I was a kid my mom said I was too young to read RL Stine's Goosebumps books so I was banned, so I picked up one of RL Stine's Fear Street books instead, because at age 7 I understood malicious compliance. The book was Revenge of the Shadow People. It was the first horror story I ever read. Because of that I've had a lifelong obsession with shadow people characters. (Heartless, Aku, Okage Evil King Stan...) It's a modest book, but it helped shape my personality, so it belongs on this list.

My middle school favorite books—because I read them 5,000 times and will never forget them—were How To Disappear Completely And Never Be Found; The Last Book In The Universe; Self-Portrait with Wings; and anything by Neal Shusterman. The Last Unicorn SHOULD have been one of my favorites except I only saw the movie and didn't learn about the book until I was an adult.

As a kid I was really into Lovecraft when I was still young & ignorant enough to be like "gee, the way he writes about other races sounds kinda racist, but I'm sure there's a good reason for that!" The reason was he's hella racist. On the bright side, there's now a bunch of very good Lovecraftian stories ABOUT racism. I liked Lovecraft Country (of course) and The Ballad of Black Tom.

Lovecraft was the biggest influence on how I think about horror and Hitchhiker's Guide was the biggest influence on how I think about comedy and idk what that combo says.

Adultier favorites: Wild Seed (anything by Octavia Butler tbh), Machineries of Empire trilogy, Sherlock Holmes Vs. Cthulhu and I shan't apologize for my terrible taste; The Android's Dream; NOS-4-A2 which I picked up because it had the same name as a Buzz Lightyear character even though the Buzz Lightyear character is a robot and the book is about a car; I'm gradually working my way through Poirot; Carnacki the Ghost-Finder. 

I read the Popol Vuh in college and was hypnotized by its poetry but that was an academic translation and more recently it's had a poetic translation that I've bought but I haven't read yet.

Here's some random recent books I enjoyed—not necessarily my "favorites," but they're in my recent library card history so it's easy for me to look them up rather than trying to pull titles of old out of my ADHD black hole. Beholder by Ryan La Sala was fantastic—fun cosmic horror (both the premise and the entity itself), fun mystery, and I like it when you can say "and it's a queer romance" as a bonus to what makes the story good as opposed to being its only selling point. Such a Bad Influence had such a perfect ending that I went to the writer's site to immediately email her about it but then my browser crashed so I went to sleep and I still need to email her about it. Darcy Coates is my current "pumps out a million haunted house mysteries" author whose books I'm working my way through. Zero Sum Game was good, I still need to read the sequels.

Separate from the above, I'm in the market for book recs that feature Death/the Reaper as a main character, because I just read one that was crap. (The book was fine; but Death was characterized boringly and didn't have any significant impact on the plot. Like he was the selling point of the book and they could have just left him out.) Bonus points if Death is depicted as an actual skeleton rather than just some guy. I'm flexible on genres, but if it's romance Death has GOTTA be a skeleton, I'm not interested in a monsterfucker bait-and-switch. I already know about Discworld and respect that Death, I just want something that isn't Discworld.

[whereserpentswalk]

People need to realize how the internet changes the context of things, because everyone acts like an authority or like they're an example of common public opinion when they're online. I recently met someone who had a lot of reddit environmentalist takes irl. And while those are things that would seem like serious climate takes online, when they say them irl in an actual conversation my internal reaction tends to be "do you need help, I don't think thinking about this is good for your mental health". And now I'm thinking of analyzing things I read online (or even say online) as if they were meatspace statements. '

Someone calling a kid's interests cringe. Imagine them doing that irl. Imagine how disgustingly unseemly an adult making fun of a teenager's interests to their face would be. Or if they're calling you out for not being good enough at something that's a hobby, imagine them saying that to you while you're showing off your hobby, imagine how terrible they look.

Someone has a hot take about how it's wrong to be attracted to adult women with short heights or flat chests, imagine someone telling that to a guy with a petite girlfriend. Someone tells you that enjoying a story with incest means you support incest, imagine someone telling that to someone reading an ASOIAF book on the train. Someone says you can't enjoy something with a problematic creator, imagine them saying that to someone reading Lovecraft on the train.

Someone has a hot take in activist space that seems really violent or somewhat facisty. Imagine them saying that irl, even with fellow activists. Imagine someone trying to defend Stalin in an actual human conversation, or trying to defend population control for environmentalist reasons.

I know I'm privileged to live in a large city and be pretty socially active, and even I can easily fall into overly online ways of thinking. But remember, even if you can't touch grass, you can imagine how things would be on the grass.